Christmas Eve

The house is quiet. They’re all out. I could start on the cinnamon rolls. All that yeast work.

No, not yet.

I should finish wrapping.

No, wrong moment for that.

Indeed, part of me, that childish part, wants to walk over to the tree and give a shake to a box or two already there.

But I wont.

I’ll sit quietly for a minute and watch the eve of Christmas Eve take hold.

The day was busy. Of course. Picking up foods to make tonight and tomorrow was itself a huge task. So there wasn't much time for taking stock. Enjoyable, sure it was a thoroughly enjoyable day. And very pretty, in an icy sort of way.









But busy. Now, for the next hour, I need not be busy. I can wait. And listen. O Holy Night from Carla’s Christmas Carols is playing on a daughter’s iTunes. Jazzy. Lovely.

So much of what is around me is simply lovely.

winter holiday

The snow comes down furiously. Chased out of the clouds. Amazing how calm it becomes once it touches the ground.

The holiday ebb of shoppers at the corner store where I work has slowed because of the snow. We’re in the midst of a winter storm warning. How many storms will it take to get us through this season?

I restock shelves, depleted after days of rapid fire selling. Except for the jazzy holiday music, for now, it is quiet.

Winter holidays. What a great thing they are! They put me in a trance that then pushes me through December as pleasantly as if it were June. Even though really, it’s not even full blown winter yet, storms outside notwithstanding.

Did you notice, for example, that the lake here isn’t frozen?




Downtown, anyone can tell that it’s winter break. State Street is empty. Alright, except for my daughters.





And now it’s evening. I finish my final preholiday turn at the shop.





I tidy up, close the register, blow out the holiday candle and face the furious and wet flakes all the way home.

moon light

Christmas is, in my mind, woman’s work. Not everyone does great heaps of holiday work, but when it is done, it seems to me it is done by women. Work that falls on top of regular, nonholiday work. And even though separately, components of work may be enormously pleasurable, when heaped, they can knock the wind out of even the hardiest.


Last night, I closed the shop after one of the busiest evenings ever. Oh, women have been coming in with lists for weeks. They’re finishing up now. Picking up the small items. Lots of stocking stuffers. Men, on the other hand, are fresh on the job. And they’re spending a very long time contemplating whether she will prefer lavender or rose. It’s a new worry, a worry of a novice. Men navigating the holidays are babes in a forest.

But I didn’t need moonlighting in the retail world to understand this. I’ve had years of stuffing stockings (sorry – of helping Santa do this; you know Santa – the CEO of Christmas) and planning menus and buying trees and making sure the tree stand is large enough.

When I first met Ed, I was not surprised that he, the man who wears guy shoes day and night, would have none of it. Christmas leaves him cold. Oh, he’ll tag along and he’ll help me saw off the trunk of the tree if I ask him, but the other stuff, the “girlie” stuff of shopping, decorating, wrapping, of figuring out when the yule log goes in after the cinnamon rolls come out, but before the hens need the oven, of nurturing, worrying, planning – that’s not for him.

Christmas is scary, he’ll tell me, even as I remind him that he hadn’t been terribly scared of it as a boy. (Like so many New York Jewish families that I knew, Ed’s was comfortable navigating the secular aspects of mainstream holidays. I suppose you could say that I came to enjoy holidays in the same backdoor way. The curious thing is that Ed and I passed each other by. My childhood Christmas – modest that it was, became a springboard for drawn out holiday festivities in adulthood. Ed, on the other hand, was happy to leave it all behind.)

In the dark hours of the early morning, I look outside to see fresh snow. I know there would not be time to play in it today, but that’s okay. I allow the noise of the plow out in the lot to slowly wake me up...





Over the years, I have become methodical, organized. As the plow rumbles and scrapes, I think to the day ahead. It’s well practiced choreography. I know what needs to be done.

The snow continues to fall – delicate snow, lovely snow.




By late afternoon, I am back at the shop, helping the men figure out if she likes lavender or rose.

together

I am at the corner shop. It’s not my evening to work, but the scheduled salesperson called in sick and so there I am.

A young teen comes in. He’s not looking to buy anything; he asks if he can use our phone.

Of course.

He spends a while on the call. He’s obviously upset. He gives back the receiver, then asks for it again.

The shop is full of customers, but I am curious and a little anxious for him and so I strain to listen. I catch phrases about being left behind. About being alone and wandering into a shop to seek out a phone...

He hangs up and goes outside where he sits, slumped in the cold against the wall. I think he’s crying.

The phone in our store rings. His family. I call him over. They confer and then the boy goes out. I see a man walking to him -- surely his father -- and I see him give the boy a great hug, and then another and anther.

Reunited.


My daughters arrived tonight. Reunited with family, with Madison.


Earlier, Ed and I struggle with putting up the tree. It’s always a struggle. One year it was frozen and snowcovered. Another, it was too fat and stubby.

This year we have one that sheds sap and grows sticky, but size-wise, it’s just right.



In the evening, after my work, my daughters and I put up the decorations. One at a time. With care and lots of happy smiles, until all the boxes are empty. The lights go on.

You're the perfect Christmas tree, we say. You can be no better.





We sit back and study the way our favorite ornaments catch the light.

few days before

Isn’t it the truth that for those who love holidays and fetes, December divides itself into the time before, and the time after Christmas...

The days after are the letdown. The days before are festive, sentimental and sweet.

Most every evening, I am working this year at the corner shop and on so many of these evenings, I feel mighty content with the world. Tired, but content. Take today: I’m there at the shop, knowing that my daughters are traveling (finally and safely) out of DC and to the Midwest, I’m listening and humming along to the holiday tunes on the store CD, and out the window, I watch a few flakes prettifying the otherwise drab streets and alleys. Who could complain...

Not being raised in a household that was much into holiday festivities (at least not after us kids got to the double digit ages), I’ve sometimes thought that I adopted Christmas in the same ways that I have adapted to life in the US: I am a stranger to both, but I jump in with enthusiasm, even as I know that the fit isn’t at every turn perfect. Us strangers and aliens – we never worry about cracks and incongruities. Our reality allows us to be tickled if we fit in any way at all. We know that nothing is (or should be) perfect.

So these then are my wonderful days of just before Christmas. With glorious and familiar elements making their comeback year in and year out. You'll recognize them, I'm sure. The routines, the photos, the traditions.

Today, I smiled in appreciation at the sight of the guy at the edge of the gas station. With his tree stand. In three days he’ll be packed and gone. For now, he invites you to stop in on the way home to pick up a tree. Kind of gets you (you – who love holidays and fetes) in the back of the throat, doesn’t it? Buy a tree, any tree, they're all beautiful, even the scraggly and uneven. All green, all as perfect as you're going to ever get in this world of rough edges...

think small

It struck me that when you write a blog about the everyday, you are (or at least I am) constantly assessing your day from how another might look at it. You create a social moment by selecting something from that day for others to see or read about.

It is not remarkable, therefore, that when I travel, I share more of the minutia. Not only do I think they're inherently more interesting to present, but I feel myself to be far away and I like the feeling of creating more social moments.

So, what if you want no social moments at all? What if you feel yourself to be wanting a pajama day, where you never leave the protective bubble of your own self?

That has never happened to me. The closest I came was back in June of 2005, when my now ex and I concluded that divorce was inevitable. For a week or so, I wrote here in a fake voice of another. It was me, but it was me pretending to be someone else. I know. Weird. It was a confusing period in my life.

But it is also true that there are days that are more “socially quiet” only because they consist largely of people and places that are outside the scope of Ocean. For instance, of my work associates – both at the law school and at the shop. And of course, days that spin around my immediate family. Oh, the stories I could tell about my daughters' attempted travels from D.C. (the place of the snowstorm of historic proportions) to the Midwest today! But it’s not my story, it’s theirs.

And so, at times like this, I reach for the small things to write about – a photo, a thought, a recollection. A dish prepared, a walk taken. Even if it is taken (as it was today) to the mall down the hill. (I know, how quickly we reclaim the customs of our homeland upon returning from abroad!) In normal times that warrants no mention, but on this pre-holiday weekend, it was made colorful and fun by the seasonal bursts of loveliness: a vendor describing his fruitcakes to a customer, two boys choosing their favorite gingerbread house, a mom helping her girl decorate a cookie, two parents using their cell phone cameras to capture the moment.

















I’m entering a spell of just those kinds of stories and photos. Ocean readers who like the shorter posts and the daintiness of small thoughts will like Ocean now. Others? Well, life’s a balance. Ocean can’t be any more than what I can call forth as ripe for inclusion here. So, sit back and relax. It’ll be a gentle ride for a while. And that is, I think, a good thing.

looking down

I left Ocean dangling in Paris. Maybe that’s a good way to end the story of “my winter vacation.” [I do have another vacation soon, but it’s not over the ocean. And it’s not fully a vacation, as I have to take work along. But before, we have, of course, the holiday of holidays. If I get too lost in work, will I forget about Christmas? Not likely. That day is pure joy – with daughters, and lots and lost of good food, exceptionally lovely music, and a beautiful tree to smell and admire... Oh! But where is the tree? Waiting a few more days to make its way up into our living room.]

Had I written at length about the day I left Paris, most likely I would have inserted an unreasonable number of “sighs” into the post, even though it was not a terrible day at all. Well, not terrible once we swallowed the reality of having to take a cab to the airport. One reason to love out sweet little Parisian hotel is that is very, very close to the RER train for the airport. But Paris is having RER train issues at the moment. Sigh... (see??)

Our driver had a GPS gizmo, which allowed her to see traffic patterns in the city. We zipped through in good speed. Good-bye, Paris. Sigh... (oh dear.)





You’d think I would want to complain about the series of flights we had chosen for our trip back: Paris – Amsterdam – Detroit – Madison. No, not at all. All were very pleasant. And flying into Holland is always interesting: it’s so green and wet there (what with all the canals)!





...As opposed to flying over Canada to our upper Midwestern state. We’ve switched now to a blue and white world. That’s Canada for you. [I’m sorry: I do understand that Canadians hate American stereotypes about Canada. Something to do with our continued ignorance about any country anywhere, even one just a step away. But really, Oh Canada: you do have lots of snow covering a vast portion of your territories!]






At home now. The blizzard snow of last week is yesterday’s news. There’s a frozen crust out there that tells me the snow needs a fresh dusting. Either that, or it has my permission to melt and not come back until next December 10th. Foolish thoughts. Sigh... (oops! I didn’t see that one coming!)

Looking out my window I do note a combination of greens blues and whites, but it is most assuredly a drab world out there today. Not blue enough, not green enough, not even white enough.





Here’s where I end the post. Otherwise I’d get to the next in a series of “sighs.” Even though truly, I’m happy as anything to be home for the holidays.

I'll at least have Paris...

Tuesday. I wake up at 2 in the morning. I’d been out a couple of hours, but I note that Ed is still up.

Let’s pack up and drive to Paris now.
Now?

We were to leave in the morning, but not this kind of morning, not when the sky is black and still has five hours of blackness before it.

Now? – Ed is trying to decide if I’m serious.
Yes. You haven’t slept. You might as well sleep in the car. I’ll drive and we’ll rest up once we get to Paris.

The issue for me is now my old elusive friend: time. We leave France early Wednesday morning. That’s coming up very very quickly. If we sleep through the night and drive to Paris Tuesday, that wont leave many hours for my most favorite of all cities. And I have a list of holiday shopping that I would like to do. And stores close in Paris, as in Dinan, at 7. None of this late night shopping. Late night is for food, for love, for anything but the mad flying from place to place with oversized shopping bags.

And so, in the middle of the night, we finish cleaning the apartment in Dinan, we pack, we leave a note for our landlord and we are on the road by 3 a.m..

At first I think this is a good idea. All is quiet. Empty. I have the night road to myself.

But at the same time, I’ve added hours to the trip. I avoided the highway and chose the slower roads, because the highway is so incredibly boring. But it is easy to get lost on the secondary roads. For the first few hours, Ed stays awake just to navigate us from one village to the next.

Moreover, there are relatively few gas stations in France (compared to what we’re used to in the States) and most of them close for the night. The rare one that stays open requires a European credit card.

But, I am optimistic. We are better off having left early, I say to myself.

...Until we hit the outskirts of Paris and the morning rush hour traffic. And now Ed does sleep, because there’s nothing to be gained by looking at the line of cars in front of us.

I do have an idea – why don’t I drive to our hotel and call the car rental agency? Last time they let us drop off the car in city center. It’ll save us a trip to the airport (where we’re scheduled to leave the car).

We pull up to our tiny but sweet hotel by the Luxembourg Gardens. The hotel clerk calls the rental agency. Yes, yes, drop off the car anywhere in Paris. She writes down the address of the closest agent at the Gare Montparnasse (the railway station on the left bank).

We unload the car and head for the agency. I’m a little apprehensive. I’ve dropped off any number of cars at this station and it’s never been easy. And I’ve not rented from National before. I’m not certain where to leave the car. (The address is of the office, which is not the same as the drop off point.)

I’ll spare you the uninteresting details of the next two hours. Suffice it to say that we spend this amount of time searching the boulevards and streets and cavernous innards of the Montparnasse Station. We have no cell phone (we’ve been using Skype on our computers for even local calls) and we have no card for the public phone. The street address clearly belongs to some office inside the complex maze of shops and bureaus that surround the station. We cannot find National.

We are about to return to the hotel and start from the beginning, when one lonely mechanic does remember that National has garage space four levels down, in the bowels of the public garage just up the road. Who would have known! We locate the stalls with relief, leave the car and now search the streets on foot for the agency's office.

There must have been signs of distress on my face because a woman, some Parisian person who obviously has compassion in her soul, comes up to me and asks if she can help. She lends us her cell phone so that we can get directions. And she leaves us her phone card in case we run into further trouble. Please, do not pay me. It’s nothing. She smiles, wishes us bonne chance and walks off.


Her kindness saves the day. By 12:30, we are rid of the car and keys, and we are walking back to our hotel. Life feels easy. We stop for a substantial lunch (or is it breakfast?) at the packed Café du Metro. Squeezed at a table to the side, I think how soothing it is to be doing this! Yes, travel time into Paris took nine hours instead of five, but so what – we are here and we’re eating hearty and honest foods (a peasant salad for me – with tomatoes, bacon, Catalan cheese and a poached egg) and the people watching is magnificent.




So soothing is it that I see Ed is ready to fall asleep. We return to the hotel and I know that it is better for him to stay put... I shower, take a deep breath, forget about the fact that my eyes feel dry from lack of sleep and set out to face the shops of Paris.

But not immediately. I make a small detour first to the Luxembourg Gardens. If I had to choose a favorite place in Paris, I’d have to say I love these gardens best. Though this isn’t a day to contemplate life or much of anything here, from the chairs sprinkled throughout. It is brisk outside! And here, take a look at the fountain. Did you note that half of it is covered with a thin layer of ice?








So, no takers for the chairs? That’s not entirely true. Off to the side, I see that a young woman and her partner are oblivious to the cold. Did I say partner? He is now that. He’s just handed her a small box. With something in it for her finger. Look at her reaction. Meanwhile, he’s popping a champagne cork. Good luck you two young things! May you always have time on your side.









But they are the exception. Mostly, the park is in a state of waiting. Until Sunday. Until a climb of just five degrees. The chairs and benches will fill again, children will send boats sailing at the fountain.




I’m in a hurry now. I move from one favorite store to another, selecting, rejecting, returning to the original selection. At one favorite little shop, I ask a clerk to hold an item or two until closing. That’s four hours away. I’ll be passing here before that. A bientot!

And all the time I am mindful that it is quite cold. Enough to keep the dog inside. Or at least to leave him waiting for your return.




(Then there are those who shop without ever setting foot in a car; myself, sure, and others who move around on foot, by metro, or by motorbike.)




Finally, I think I am done. As I walk back toward the shop with the held items, I notice that someone is locking up her store. Those French! Always closing earlier than they should. But then I see another doing the same. I glance at my watch. Seven. How did it get to be so late??





Ed and I eat dinner at a place that I love for many reasons: it’s fantastic food in casual, artsy surroundings, it’s stuff I could never find back home, and finally – it has a big window between the dining room and the kitchen. Each time I’ve eaten here, I am able to watch the chef. He always looks up, he always catches your eye, and he always smiles. It is an extravagant meal -- far more so than our usual choices, but it is a warm and funky place too. Ed can wear his black t-shirt and jeans. He wont stand out (except for the fit of the jeans; what can I say -- Farm & Fleet, $19).

In a Parisian variation on the Brittany theme, Ed and I order (for an appetizer) the seafood (oysters, clams) in a ginger broth. Hello, Brittany, once again.




I had wanted to go to the Eiffel Tower after dinner. But it couldn’t be. I am too tired.

We take a few steps toward the river -- not the Rance anymore. We're now by the Seine. Still, it's beautiful. Brilliantly so. I'm thinking -- rivers are so very memorable.





I take the arm of my occasional traveling companion and slowly head back, away from the river, to the little hotel by the Luxembourg Gardens.

Dinan and the River Rance

The last day in Brittany. Monday. Clear and sunny. But the winter frost has settled in during the night. Nothing serious, mind you. Nice to look at.





I step outside into the garden and note that some flowers are still holding their own. Not many, but some. (I have to say, we could not be, in the end, happier with our Dinan apartment rental. I don’t really want you there at times when I’d like to return, but for those other months, ask about the place where Nina stayed, at this site.)

But how should we tackle this day? Here’s s a challenge: do we look for breakfast (late as ever)? Do we eat dessert crepes with jam, just across the river? Or do we climb up the hill and forget that it’s breakfast? We're remembering our one and only lunch on our first day here: buckwheat crepes with scallops. Or maybe we should climb up and hike over to the bakery and the hip café that we grew to love in the course of our stay?

Well of course. The latter. So, up the hill we go. Ed pauses halfway. See this alley? Don’t you wonder where it leads? So many times we climbed here and we never noticed it! We’re rewarded now with views of the river port below, and of the old town up the hill.








And now we’re at the bakery. Bonjour Monsieur-dames (a French shortcut: greeting for the man and woman who walk in together)! Qu’est-ce-que vous desirez?

What do I desire? Another week in Brittany. A summer in Brittany. The moon. But a baguette traditionel and a pepite (flaky pastry with chocolate and crème patisserie) will please me as well.



At the café, it’s lunch hour and we hesitate about taking space for a coffee and our own bakery treats. But the waiters here are superb and they encourage us to come in and sit at our old table. Ed “reads” and I watch, transfixed by the utter professionalism of these men.









Still, the afternoon is quickly speeding away from me. One last sip, one last glance. And now we’re moving briskly. Down the hill...




...where we retrieve our Smart little car. The idea was to hike the coast of the River Rance. It's interesting that we are so close to the sea and yet we have settled into river life, being loath now to leave it.

We drive up to Langolay-sur-Rance (maybe fifteen kilometers up from Dinan). We want to pick up the hiking trail there, but it’s hard. We don’t have good maps and the trail’s intersection with the road is not well marked.

Still, there is a lovely view of the wide at this point River Rance. Like in the Finistere, the tide works its way several miles down into the river basin. It’s low tide now.





...And still we cannot figure out where to start our walk.

Tick tock...

I suggest we stop looking and drive to the next village. By our most general map, the road goes down to the water and so does the trail. We can’t not find it.




Indeed, not only do we locate the trail, but we also encounter a group of hikers. Seniors, actually. Maybe a dozen. Where are you from? – I ask, curious about who would choose to straddle these coastal hills on a cold (it’s midthirties at best) December afternoon. From St Malo! Just across the river. There you go – it’s for the sport, isn’t it? I don’t ask what is their average daily consumption of le tele, or of frites for that matter. It’ll be less than mine and I’m not a big tele person.

They’re heading south, we’re heading north and so we bid au revoir by the heels of the Virgin Mary (at least I think it’s the Virgin Mary) and set out.




I can’t say that it is a warm trudge. The trail cuts through the woodlands midway up the bluff and we are on the western shore. Translation: there’s not much light, let alone sunlight here. The views are pretty, but the night’s frost hasn’t entirely melted away.




The trail moves away from the water for a few miles and now we do have the low sun on our backs as we admire the shapely trees and the... what? Fields of cauliflower? Collards?








Back to the river’s edge and onto another village...

...and the next one. The river is in the shadows of dusk now.

Tick tock....




It’s time to turn back. It’s past 4 and the sun does its disappearing act between 5 and 5:30, which gives us just a little over an hour of good walking light. If we swallow our pride and take the auto road rather than the coastal path, we should make it back to the car in good time.

I’m thinking -- it’s been a glorious week. Sigh... Ah well... Tomorrow, I’ll still have Paris.

But I should insert one caveat here: just after we passed the Virgin Mary some hours back, I asked Ed – did you take the map?
No... did you?
No...
I suppose we don’t need it. It’s not much good. Too general. Just lists the villages...

Alright. And now we walk along the road, in the silence of deep satisfaction. Another good day.
















We reach the first houses along the road. We go left, then right, then left again. Toward the river bank, past one set of houses, past another. Down the bluff, to the river.

So why isn’t there a Virgin Mary at the point where the road meets the river?

We look around. Strange – none of it is familiar. Where the hell are we?

Three old women are strolling along where the water sends wavelets onto the shore. What should I ask? I don’t know the name of the village or road where we parked. I don’t know anything at all, except that we are by the River Rance – a river that flows in an uncomplicated fashion so that, walking along its edge you cannot get lost. It is logically impossible to get lost.

Except that we are terribly lost. And the sun is touching the horizon.



Tick tock...

I ask one of the three – the oldest one actually, the one with pink cheeks and deep lines of maturity -- the trail is here, no? I see the markings. But where is the statute? You know, of the Virgin Mary. The one at the bottom of the road with the red lamp posts?
The Virgin Mary? Of, yes, I know. Yes. But really, it is far away!
So we can get there by taking this path?
Yes, I believe so...

We pick up the trail. The sun is gone. There are no more shadow. Ten minutes – Ed says – and we turn around.

Neither of us understands how it is that we could be in completely unfamiliar territory. But if we overshot the village by a great distance, we should not be out on a path that cuts through a steep bluff by the river. We should be back on the road, flagging cars, asking for directions... to somewhere with red lamp posts and the Virgin Mary.

Twenty minutes later and we still see nothing that is familiar. No road, no village. Ed says – let’s turn back.
I hesitate. I know we will not die by the River Rance. But we may well have to claw and grope our way back on all fours if we don't soon get ourselves into recognizable terrain.

But I believe the old ladies. We move forward, careful not to trip in the dimming light.

And finally, around the bend, we see it: village lights. The road leading to the river’s age. The faint outline of the statue.



Of course, logic wins every time. We simply took the wrong turn. At a place where the land juts out in a sweeping stretch away from the village itself. We could see that on the map. Once we found the car and looked at the map. (The car was right by this house:)



We drive back in the dark Brittany night. It’s getting close to seven. Stores will be closing soon. Dinan will become very quiet.

We’ll be eating crepes tonight – up there, at the top of the cobbled way. We stroll with the relief of being safe, on streets where we don’t need maps anymore.

What dessert do you want? Ed asks suddenly.
Dessert?
I was thinking maybe we could go down to the bakery and see if they had those mille feuilles we had the other day in Dinard.

Down to the other side of town, Stores are closing, but our bakery stays open. 7:30. We close at 7:30. No, they don’t have the mille feuille. Days don’t end in perfect bundles.

But, there are lemon tarts still on the shelf and really, we could use a baguette traditionel for the car ride to Paris tomorrow.

We’ve utterly strange pests at the bakery – me, waving my camera, Ed, stuffing the baguette each day into my pack. And then, suddenly, we will not show up anymore. I say good bye, but I skip the a bientot (see you soon). The ladies there who sometimes crack a smile (but often do not) will not see us again, nor we them.

The creperie we choose for the last evening meal...



... comes highly recommended, but we’re not smitten with it. We had our own favorite.

We do our final walk down the cobbled hill.




For a week we lived in Brittany. It’s time to return home.